


be gentle with me (i don't know what that means)

by earlgrey_milktea



Series: milktea's saso2017 fills [40]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, First Meetings, M/M, Prompt Fill, Rated for swearing, blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea
Summary: kyoutani wakes, injured and alone, inside a witch's den. he's fucked.





	be gentle with me (i don't know what that means)

**Author's Note:**

> original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/23665.html?thread=14493553#cmt14493553)
> 
>  **quote:**  
>  "how do i feel? i feel like a dog in an alley. i need love but i will bite you."  
> \- jon lovett
> 
> yes, this is yet another werewolf kyoutani fic

When Kentarou wakes, he’s on the floor of an unfamiliar room. A basement, judging by the earthy scent filtering through his nose. He pushes himself up, but doesn’t get very far. Something is hooked onto his ankles, and his muscles scream in agony every move he makes. 

“What the fuck,” he says, glancing down at himself. He’s back in human form, and worse to show for it. There are ugly scratches down his legs and he’s pretty sure that throbbing on his right shoulder is an infection. The chain on his feet isn’t silver, but he’s too weak to rip it off. He’s stuck, wounded, captured, in some sick bastard’s basement, and Kentarou can already hear Oikawa’s annoying voice telling him  _ I told you so. _

“Fuck,” he repeats, for good measure.

There are tables of varying sizes scattered around the room. Pots and plants litter every surface, and Kentarou can smell a mess of ingredients lying around and balanced precariously on the shelves by the walls. There are some jars glowing by the corner. 

Great. He must have really lost it, to allow himself to be captured by a witch.

He tenses when he picks up footsteps. Kentarou struggles to his feet as best he can, hackles raised and ready to fling himself forwards if he needs to.

The door opens, and a light switch if flicked. Standing there is a young man, pale hair combed neatly on his forehead, large brown eyes staring back at Kentarou like a doll. He looks absolutely harmless, and every fibre of Kentarou’s being is telling him to run.

“You’re awake,” the stranger says. He steps into the room, placing the tray he was carrying on a nearby table. “I thought I might have to restrain you further, but you seem pretty calm and lucid. That’s good.”

Kentarou narrows his eyes. He doesn’t reply.

“I’m Yahaba,” the witch continues. He’s fiddling with whatever he carried in, mixing something into a mug. “I found you lying in a puddle of your own blood outside my front porch. You’re lucky it was too early for anybody else to be awake.”

Kentarou remembers nothing, nothing except the dark of night and the overbearing moon above him, monsters in the woods and the taste of blood in his mouth. He doesn’t bother telling Yahaba that.

The witch straightens and walks over. Kentarou growls. Yahaba sighs. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, stopping two feet away from him. He gestures to the mug in his hands. “I just want to give you this curative. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re still bleeding all over my floor.”

Kentarou glares at him.

Yahaba glares back. “You can let me help you, or you can die here, I don’t care. I know a few recipes asking for werewolf parts.”

“Fuck you,” Kentarou spits.

“Oh, goody, he knows how to swear.” Yahaba raises the mug again. “Are you going to let me help you?”

Trickles of blood drip down from his knee. The pain in Kentarou’s shoulder is threatening to cloud over his consciousness by now, and he’s pretty sure he’s only holding it together because of sheer stubbornness. Iwaizumi always said that was his strongest trait.

“Fine,” he says. “You already have me chained, anyway.”

“That was because your wolf was flighty and I didn’t want it to kill you before I could take a look at your actual wounds.” Yahaba crouches in front of him, holding the mug against Kentarou’s lips. Kentarou has to admit, albeit grudgingly, that the witch is quite fearless, to approach a cornered werewolf in such an enclosed space, just like that. Kentarou doubts the witch is unarmed, but he knows what he himself is capable of. And it’s not pretty.

Kentarou reaches up to hold the mug by himself. The drink leaves a sour tang as it slides down his throat, but its effects are fast. He can feel the stabbing pain subside to a dull throb. 

A finger touches his arm, and Kentarou jerks, hard. The mug is flung across the room, Yahaba thrown backwards, landing on his elbows. Kentarou presses himself against the wall, eyes wide, breaths hard, shoulders twitching with the need to defend himself, but his wolf is asleep and his wounds are too much. He ignores the sting of a cut reopening on his arm, and glares at the witch before him.

Yahaba raises his hands. “I just want to take a look at your wounds,” he says, voice slow and low. When Kentarou doesn’t budge, Yahaba sighs. “I’ll undo the chains, if it makes you feel better.”

“Do it,” hisses Kentarou.

Yahaba does, and they stare each other down for a full two minutes. Kentarou regrets sending the mug flying, because the dull throb has grown back into sharp hurt. He tenses again when Yahaba shifts.

“I’m trained in healing,” he says, holding Kentarou’s gaze steady, “but I won’t force you. But you do run faster and warmer than humans, so I suggest you come to a decision, quick.”

Kentarou glares at him some more, before deciding, to hell with it. His pack’s long gone by now, and if this witch wanted to kill him, he would have done so. Kentarou’s at his mercy. He fucking hates it.

“I won’t hurt you,” Yahaba says softly, “I promise.”

Closing his eyes, Kentarou nods. He doesn’t open them until the pain has faded to numb pulses and Yahaba’s voice is washing over him like a dream. There are worse places to be than a witch’s den, he supposes.

**Author's Note:**

> @puddingcatbae on tumblr + twitter


End file.
